


Shy

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light Masochism, M/M, Riding Crops, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A raunchy evening in doesn’t go quite as smoothly as planned. But Dorian and Mahanon manage to salvage things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shy

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The Inquisitor is a trans man here. He hasn’t undergone any physical transition except for deepening his voice via some unnamed method, and is quite comfortable with his body as it is. 
> 
> Just a scene I’ve had in my head for a while that I wanted to finally write. Put it all down in a few hours.

Mahanon trembles in the cool air, turns his face into his arm. He can’t remember the last time he was this aroused. He’s sure his cunt is dripping onto the bedsheets.

The blindfold helps. He loves the blindfold. Makes things more exciting. There it is, the faint sound, a sharp  _swish_ —

He cries out.

His nipple this time, a cruel strike, his skin stinging from the firm leather of the riding crop. Another  _swish_ , and he flinches, his other nipple burning.

“Mm, amatus. You’re so beautiful when you writhe.”

There is one drawback to the blindfold, and it’s that he can’t  _see_  Dorian, can only listen to his level voice, tinged now with some amusement. A shame not to see his radiant lover, to feel himself pinned, defenseless, under those brilliant gray eyes—

Mahanon cries out again. Three strikes all at once to his inner thigh. He’s sitting up against the headboard with his knees tied back, splaying his legs out so Dorian has easy access—can likely see how very, very wet he is, how much he’d like to be taken fast and rough and as soon as possible. But first, the crop.  _Endure it as long as you can,_  Dorian told him earlier.  _Tell me when it is too much, and I will stop. But until then I would like to listen to your whimpering. I would like to see you straining against your bonds, and I would like to see you open your legs for me anyway. I want to see what strength you have, amatus._

A chain of strikes down the other thigh, and Mahanon tenses, his wrists tugging futilely at the silk rope that ties them to a hook just under the ceiling. (It once held a dusty painting. It has found a more gratifying use.) Then one more, not so sharp as the others, but it lands right on his vulva.

 _“Nnh!”_  His hips roll against nothing, a display he’s sure must look rather lewd, and he rolls his hips again at the thought. Creators, he wants to be  _filled._  No. Not yet. First he endures, for as long as he can. Because Dorian wants him to—and because he himself is curious. Where is his limit? How much can he take? Battle pain is different, battle pain is a necessity, a side effect of injury. This is pure sensation. No wounds to worry over. Only his own power of will.

“You are going to be  _marvelously_  bruised after this.”

Now the crop moves to his breasts. Dorian alternates with precision and thoroughness. Mahanon’s breasts are small, and not the tiniest patch of skin is spared. His shoulders twist, his back arching as he tries to hide himself from the vicious instrument. To no avail, of course. Dorian is relentless, marking the soft flesh until Mahanon is afraid Josephine will hear him shouting all the way down in her makeshift office.

But then Dorian stops, and Mahanon sags, taking deep breaths. His breasts burn with the aftereffects of the harsh treatment. His cunt burns, too, with a desire so great he thinks it might be that which causes him to beg out rather than the pain—

He twitches and whines as the firm leather lifts his breast, traces around it, then flicks at his nipple. “D—Dorian—“

“Hm?”

He wants to feel Dorian’s hands, or his lips. But not yet. Not yet. Instead a smile breaks on his face. “I love you.”

A second’s pause. “You are just—it  _infuriates_  me how wonderful you are. I love you too, amatus. Now, if you don’t mind, I must get back to being mean to you.”

The crop begins paddling the underside of his breast.

It’s gentle at the start but doesn’t stay that way. Sensitive, sensitive,  _sensitive_. Mahanon cries out, his hands curling and uncurling against the rope, and still it keeps going. The sting from Dorian’s earlier ministrations remains, and feeds into this new pain in a way Mahanon is intimately familiar with—this is hardly his first time—but it never gets much easier. “Nn—please—“ he whimpers.

The crop withdraws. “Are you asking me to stop?”

Is he? Mahanon thinks about it. The pain is intense, yes, but it’s just pain. He can take it. “No,” he says, breathless. “Keep going.”

“Stubborn one, aren’t you? Very well then. As you wish.”

A faint  _swish_.

This time there are no breaks or pauses. The crop descends again and again, in long lines up his thighs, a few particularly forceful strikes on his breasts, and now and then a stinging blow to his vulva that makes Mahanon buck his hips, as if grinding against an invisible lover. His cries are of agony, of course, but as the burning the crop leaves in its wake starts to gather, he hears something else wrenching from his throat, something harsh and wanton and rapturous. As Dorian continues without mercy, Mahanon’s voice starts to break, and his writhing turns wild, his arms twisting, his toes curled, his entire body tensed. He has only to say the word, of course, and this is all over, and Dorian will come closer and touch him and take him,  _finally_  take him. But he can still endure. The pain is all-consuming and feels as though it will burn him right up, but he hasn’t asked Dorian to stop so far, and that means he doesn’t have to ask, not yet, he can still endure—

It takes him a moment to realize he’s not being struck anymore. “What—“ His teeth chatter. Odd, it’s not  _that_  cold. “What is it?”

“Oh, amatus, what am I going to do with you?”

Mahanon’s wrists fall from the hook, unbound, and his legs come free as well. All at once. Dorian’s using magic to untie them, which means he must really be worried—normally he eases Mahanon out of the bindings. The blindfold is next to disappear, and Mahanon blinks, squinting in the candlelight. “It’s all right, Dorian—” he says, “I can keep going!”

“See, I know you  _think_  that.” Dorian is kneeling on the bed, still dressed. “But look how fast you’re breathing.”

Mahanon finds he  _is_  breathing rather quickly and can’t seem to stop. He shivers, then lets out a convulsive laugh and claps a hand over his mouth. That was mildly embarrassing. He discovers, too, that he is shaking badly, and there’s a peculiar pins-and-needles sensation prickling over his hands and feet.

“Here—lie down.” Dorian pulls the covers back, lets Mahanon slide under them, and joins him there. “Try to take slow, deep breaths.”

Mahanon hauls himself onto Dorian’s chest, presses his face into the fine Tevinter silk shirt. He giggles again—still embarrassing—and inhales, his chest aching a little, worn from the effort of breathing. The stinging of the crop seems to have become secondary—now it seems most of his body is swarmed by this pins-and-needles sensation.

“I pushed you too far.” Dorian strokes his hair. “I’m so sorry, amatus, I should have noticed earlier.”

“No, I was—“ Mahanon’s lips are clumsy, and he tries again. “I was all right. I could have taken more. Or…” Another shuddering breath. “That’s what I thought, anyway.”

“You were the one putting all your trust in me. My part is supposed to be to take care of you.”

“And  _you_  trusted  _me_  to tell you when to stop.” He grins, feeling he should be taking the situation more seriously, but this odd euphoria won’t leave him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Dorian. I’m fine, really.”

“Hmm. I’m still going to hold you until you stop shaking. And possibly longer.”

Mahanon hugs Dorian closer. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

So Dorian’s arms fold around his back, and Mahanon finally begins to relax.

It takes a few minutes, but his breathing slows, and the tingling in his limbs recedes, allowing the residual sting of the crop to rise to the surface of his senses again, as well as the soft contact of Dorian’s hands on his back. His shaking turns to trembling, then disappears. The strange, slightly manic happiness fades as well, and he realizes the gravity of what’s happened, and props himself up on one elbow. “Are you all right?”

Dorian gazes back at him. “Are  _you_  all right?”

“Oh, yes.” Mahanon leans down and kisses him. “Really, I am.”

“Good. Then—yes. I am as well.” He sighs. “It’s just—I love you very much. And I don’t want to hurt you more than you can manage—“

Mahanon laughs. “I can manage quite a lot, you know. And I do like it.”

“Your tolerance for pain _is_ rather impressive.”

“Stop it, I’m blushing.” He lies down again, slipping a hand under Dorian’s shirt so it rests at the bony jut of his hip. He considers for a moment the way things have just gone, considers the undiminished wetness between his legs. No harm in asking. It might even make things better. He presses his lips to Dorian’s neck. “We don’t have to call it an evening quite yet, you know. I’m up for more if you are.”

A moan. “Please don’t ask me to hurt you again. I just might cry.”

“I only want to do what you want to. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“So, what  _do_  you want to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Kiss you about a hundred times?”

Mahanon traces Dorian’s hip. “I like that idea. Only—do you think you could start with my breasts? They’re a bit sore.”

“Of course!” Dorian smiles—finally, it sets Mahanon’s heart at ease—and flips Mahanon on his back. “How could I resist?”

Dorian tends to Mahanon’s breasts with infinite care, his lips trailing small, lingering kisses over the stinging skin. The tenderness is an exquisite counterpart to the merciless treatment he suffered through  _(suffered,_ hardly) only moments ago. He reaches down, strokes Dorian’s hair, the back of his neck. Whichever nipple isn’t being kissed Dorian thumbs gently as he palms the soft, sensitive flesh of Mahanon’s breast.

It’s all starting to feel rather good.

Mahanon bites his lip, lets out a quiet moan. For the most part because it rises naturally out of him, but a little bit to signify to Dorian he wouldn’t mind more. Then all of a sudden Dorian’s tongue is circling his nipple in way that, compared to the tender kisses, seems positively obscene. It appears the message has been received. Mahanon grins at the ceiling, then arches off the bed as a swell of heat rises in his cunt.  _“Ah—“_

“Enjoying yourself, amatus?” Dorian murmurs.

“Mm—oh, yes.”

“How would you feel if I decided to kiss you a little lower?”

At last. “Creators,  _please.”_

Dorian takes his time, kissing Mahanon’s ribs, his stomach, which only makes the desire even more unbearable—pain is easy, it’s lust that will drive him into submission. Then Dorian slides back on the bed, wraps his arms around Mahanon’s legs.

He starts with each inner thigh, kissing the marks he left with the crop. Almost an apology, though Mahanon doesn’t need one, but he wants Dorian to feel at ease with him again, and lets him take his time. Of course, it’s also quite nice to be lavished with such attention. Mahanon grasps his breast idly. Oh yes, he will be bruised in the morning. Still, he massages himself. The pain isn’t so sharp anymore, and it comes in delicious little shocks that go straight to his cunt. Dorian’s kisses stray closer, descending to the joint of his thigh…then skip straight over to the other side, passing over his soaked vulva. Mahanon whines, rolling his hips.

“Needy thing, aren’t you?” Dorian says, and Mahanon can hear the smile in his voice.

“Please, Dorian. If you don’t touch me soon I might have to start begging.”

“Oh, you know how much I love to hear you beg. But I think tonight is a night for spoiling you.”

Then Dorian’s mouth is on him, and Mahanon gasps.

Better even than he’d anticipated. Dorian’s tongue sweeps over him, lavishing his  labia. Mahanon laughs, then claps a hand over his mouth. He can’t help it—it just feels so  _good._ He plants his feet on the bed and raises his hips a little to meet Dorian’s mouth, feels Dorian’s arms hugging him closer. Then that quick tongue parts his folds and digs at his entrance, and Mahanon shouts in surprise, his body tensing.

The sublime warmth leaves his cunt. “Everything all right, amatus?”

Mahanon just breathes for a moment, struggling to get his incredible need back under control. He can feel the pink flush in his face and chest. “I think ‘all right’ is understating it.”

“It isn’t too much? You seemed rather taken by surprise.”

“Too much?” He props himself up on his elbows. “You haven’t even used your fingers yet.”

Dorian grins, a wicked thing. “Would you  _like_  me to use my fingers?”

Mahanon grins right back. “Of course. I expect it, in fact.”

“So demanding.” Dorian puts on a mock affront. “Well, as always, I aim to please.”

At that point Mahanon discovers he is _very_  relaxed, because Dorian slides three fingers into him without even a hint of resistance.

Mahanon falls back to the bed, letting out a long, shameless moan. The penetration, so long awaited, only feeds the desperate heat in his cunt. Then Dorian, lips locked around Mahanon’s clit, starts thrusting. They’re deep, slow strokes, dragging over Mahanon’s inner walls. Not meant to send him over the edge, only—Mahanon moans again—to build the orgasm into something that will destroy him absolutely. Dorian’s fingers are masterful, stretching him, exploring him. The gentle pressure on his clit is a comfort now, but Dorian hasn’t even started sucking, and Mahanon trembles at the thought of what that would do to him.

All in all, he feels a bit conquered.

The thrusting stops. He can feel how puffy his labia are, imagines their red blush, parted around Dorian’s fingers. His clit, too, is engorged, vulnerable. Everything is still for a moment. Mahanon takes a shaky breath, his skin prickled with sweat even in the cool air. He knows what’s about to happen, but that doesn’t diminish the anticipation, the licentious thrill—

Then Dorian starts fucking him again.

The thrusts this time are deeper, shorter, faster, with fingers hooked right into that one spot that makes his legs go nerveless, makes him gasp uncontrollably, his voice high and breathy as he lets out wordless noises of pleasure. The warmth pools, brimming in his clit—which Dorian starts to suck, all at once, and Mahanon prays he doesn’t use his tongue, because that might actually be too much and then he would have to beg for mercy and he refuses to admit defeat. All of a sudden he finds the orgasm approaching,  _very_  quickly, right at that spot deep inside him, the one Dorian keeps aiming for. Because Dorian knows him, of course. Knows how to make him come. Mahanon tries to say something, some kind of warning— “I’m—I’m going to—“

But the orgasm, delayed so long, cannot be delayed anymore.

Mahanon’s back arches up off the bed, all of his muscles tensing at once. His feet scrabble on the covers, then find purchase, his hips thrusting wildly against Dorian’s face. He realizes he is yelling but has neither the ability nor the desire to stop. His cunt clenches hard, squeezing so tight he’s distantly afraid he’ll break Dorian’s fingers. Dorian has stopped thrusting, but he is not finished. Instead he jams his fingers deep into Mahanon and strokes that spot, that one accursed spot, and the orgasm swells, revitalized.

Mahanon is whimpering now. He keeps coming and cannot stop. The sensation swells in his clit uncontrolled, and Dorian sucks him relentlessly, making his legs shiver and his feet slide out, slipping over the covers. His cunt finally relaxes, only to contract again in powerful bursts around Dorian’s fingers. His clit is at the same time numb and far too sensitive, captured between Dorian’s lips. It is too much, yet he can’t form the words to ask for respite, can only let himself be subjugated under this shattering pleasure. His cunt continues to milk the three fingers inside him, and Dorian never stops stroking that spot. Mahanon finds himself reaching down, grasping Dorian’s wrist as if to urge him deeper.

Then all at once the sensation in his clit overwhelms him, and he at last manages to gasp the words out. “Please—please, I can’t—“

Dorian pulls away, releasing him from his exquisite prison. Mahanon beckons weakly. “Please—I need you—“

Then Dorian is beside him, holding his face, stroking his cheek. “How are you doing, amatus?”

It takes Mahanon a moment to process the words. Everything is soft and far away. The laughter bubbles up before he can stop it, and he muffles it with one hand. “That was—amazing.”

“Have I told you how incredible it is to feel you climax around me? Because it is. Incredible, I mean.”

Mahanon tugs at his shirt. “Can you lie down?”

So Dorian obeys, and Mahanon crawls on top of him, kisses him. The tinge of salt is still there, the taste of his own fluids. “Give me a moment to recover and I’ll return the favor,” he says.

“I’m actually quite satisfied as things are,” Dorian replies. “Why don’t you just rest a while?”

Mahanon blinks. “Are you sure? This all feels a bit one-sided. Just a bit.”

“Of course I’m sure. Bringing you to orgasm is one of my most favorite activities. There’s no other way I’d rather spend an evening.” Dorian kisses him again.

Mahanon discovers he is very sleepy. A good orgasm will do that. He lies down once more. “I love you.”

Dorian’s chest vibrates under him. “And I love you. With all my heart.”

Mahanon shifts a little, a tiny twinge of pain radiating from one of his breasts. He smiles to himself. He’ll treasure those twinges tomorrow. “I’m sorry for frightening you earlier,” he murmurs. “I’ll try and be better in the future.”

“As will I.” A gentle hand trailing down his back.

Yes. A few things still to work out. Mahanon closes his eyes. But this is worth working for.


End file.
